CHAPTER 17

Ruth

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THE TRAILER IS QUIET. So quiet I can hear my footsteps, my breath. I’m alone again. Mom is working. Lucy is with friends. The grandparents are off at their respective card clubs to gamble. I wonder at the emptiness in my life as I wander to the bathroom in search of something to pass the time.

Mom’s makeup bag is a shiny silver pleather. I unzip it and pick out a burnt red lipstick. I love the waxy smell of it. My top lip is a tight bow, but the bottom is full and pouty. I scrutinize the details of my face as I stare into the mirror. The bridge of my nose is straight but too prominent. My eyes are a flat milky brown. Boring by most standards. I’m tortured by these features. No matter how long I stare, which angle I look from, I can’t decide if I’m pretty. I think maybe I am, but it might be that I’m just used to my face, comforted by the familiar reflection.

Then I decide that must be it. The reason I’m alone. If I were prettier I’d have friends. I’d have a boyfriend. I’d be laughing and joking with a group of people who love me. I could go over there, right now, to Lucy’s friend’s house. I could introduce myself, and maybe they’d take me in, too. The idea makes me nervous but excited, and I start smiling at myself like an idiot in the mirror, practicing a casual “hey guys” kind of look.

I rummage through the makeup bag with quick shaky fingers, pulling out the mascara and eyeliner. The black outline of my lashes creates a contrast to the dull brown, and turns my eyes into a shiny copper color. I move on to the blush, flushing my cheeks with a glittery pink, then I find a matching eye shadow. Finally, the burnt red lipstick tops it off. I smack my lips a little, evening out the shade, and comb my fingers through my wild dark curls.

Alone in the bathroom I feel confident. Beautiful. I pick through my clothes to find the newest looking tank top, a solid black one, and a pair of matching black Dickies. The only outfit my mom let me get at Hot Topic because they were on the sale rack.

My chest feels tight with nerves, my shoulders tense. There is too much spit in my mouth so I wipe at the corners of my shaded lips. Quick breaths steal my self-assurance. I realize, as I pace the living room in my black clothes and make-up, that as much as I hate being alone, I’m absolutely terrified of meeting people. I’ve lived in the same small town since I was born. I’ve grown up with the same group of people since before I can remember. They’ve always been there. I never had to learn how to make friends or meet new people. I have no idea what to say or how to be. The thought shakes me, and I stop with my fingers on the sliding glass door.

I swallow down the extra spit. The anxiety is overwhelming, like a thick fog I have to wade through to embark on the island of normal.

So, what, are you just going to hide forever? I ask myself. Never meet anyone new because it’s scary?

I force myself to ignore the cold prickly nervous sweat wetting my armpits and push the door open.

Rosa’s trailer is a few over from ours. I’ve seen Lucy climb the porch steps a few times, always wishing I could join, but there is something sad about clinging to your baby sister.

This way is better, coming over on my own. Maybe I’ll say Mom called to check in on her so I’m just coming to see what they’re up to. I rush forward, climb the stairs and knock before it’s too late to turn back.

I wait for an uncomfortable minute, my lips tightening into a nervous pucker as I bite the inside of my cheek. No one answers, but I know she’s here so I knock again. There’s music playing inside, so maybe they can’t hear me.

I turn the knob, and peek my head in. “Hello?”

The living room is full of people. Most, if not all are Hispanic and around my age. They don’t just stare at me, they glare. I search desperately for Lucy, some easy way to explain and slink away. She’s nowhere.

“The fuck?” A guy with large fake diamond studs and a closely shaved head stands. “Who the fuck is this white chick?”

I try to leave, but I’m literally stuck. My black tank is snagged on a loose metal piece sticking out from the knob. The door swings as I pull back and hits me, slamming my face into the frame.

The room erupts in nightmarish laughter, and my cheeks get hot and flushed with embarrassment. I want to die.

I almost break down right there in front of everyone, but Lucy appears from the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” she scolds me from across the room.

My relief in seeing her is like a dam against the inevitable torrent of tears.

“Anybody order a gothic beauty queen?” someone calls, and more laughter ensues.

Lucy rushes forward, and I smile sheepishly at her. There is so much worry in her eyes, I know she’ll save me from myself.

“Get the fuck out of here, Ruth.” The cold tone in her voice wounds me, but I’m used to her insults. It’s the look in her eyes that hurts most. It’s a pleading terrified look, like I’ve done something horribly wrong.

“Okay. Sorry—” I start to say, but she shoves me out the door, ripping my shirt.

“Don’t come here anymore. Hear me?” she warns. “Don’t. Come. Here.” Then she shuts me out on the porch.

It’s not until I’m back in the trailer that I allow myself to weep and cower in my shame. I hide in the bathroom and watch my face contort in the mirror as I sob. I wad up handfuls of toilet paper and wipe the make-up away with vicious strokes as if it’s the cause of my humiliation. The stain of the lipstick turns my mouth into a swollen red mess, my eyes swell as I rub them clean. I’m pathetic.

I cry until I accept that no one can hear me, no one’s coming to check that I’m all right.

Why is it we cry anyway? What is it about that ugly awful sound that helps us push past our worst moments?

Eventually I resign myself to my loneliness, welcoming the familiar freedom of it.